


Funny The Way We're Wired

by seriousfic



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousfic/pseuds/seriousfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twist of fate leads to Helena being awoken early by the team, with her becoming Myka's personal project... and Myka becoming Helena's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Looking back, Myka almost wouldn’t believe how it had all happened. That wasn’t saying much, her entire week consisted of things like “Thursday—possessed Joss Whedon autograph that makes the reader want to kill the first happy couple he sees.” But the threads connecting her to H.G. were so tenuous that she could almost chalk it up to fate. Or maybe that was just how Helena made her feel.

If Claudia hadn’t found the ledger propping up one leg of a coffee table in the abandoned break room… if she hadn’t recognized the name H.G. Wells and mentioned it to Myka… if Myka hadn’t brought the fact that they had a woman in the Bronze Sector who had done nothing wrong to Artie… and most importantly, if some fiber of her being hadn’t drawn a connection even then, even when all she knew was a name, that she kept harping on it long after Artie considered the matter closed. And then, if the goo hadn’t stopped working…

“I bet H.G. could fix it,” Myka said at the panic meeting, while Artie and Claudia were still playing technobabble Mad Libs. She had read what was left of H.G.’s case files extensively, and it left her with the childlike hero worship that a good book should.

Artie was sniffing over a dismissive line when Pete said “Myka’s right.” That got the death glare redirected his way. “I mean, Myka’s always right. She’s Myka. And it’s not like we can’t put this H.G. back in if she turns out to be Jack the Ripper or something.”

“Jack the Ripper was a dude,” Claudia groused.

“So was H.G. Wells!”

Artie held up his hands, sighing. “As much as I hate to admit it, we really don’t have time to argue and… Bering actually brings up a good point.” The last part was said very quickly. “But I want you watching her every waking moment and some of the sleeping ones too. Just because her file says she isn’t dangerous doesn’t mean she’s not.”

“—Jack the Ripper, lady version,” Pete finished.

“She’s your responsibility,” Artie thundered in conclusion, gesturing for Myka to follow him as he set out for the Bronze Section. “So there are a few simple rules I’d like to go over weeeell before she wakes up.”

Myka nodded and tried her best to listen as she followed, with the undignified certainty that she looked as eager as a puppy following its owner. She’d actually get to meet the father… no, mother… of science fiction, her childhood idol, the owner of the most incredible imagination in literature. Myka just hoped she wouldn’t be too stuffy.

 

* * *

 

They dimmed the lights in the Bronze Section first. As Artie explained, the process would leave H.G. sensitive to light. Myka nodded tersely. For some reason, she felt nervous about meeting her idol. What if H.G. started going off about racial minorities or, worse yet, ‘sexual deviants’? Myka had gotten enough of that at the academy, just for not having a boyfriend. It seemed a shame to imagine such a visionary as being, well, Victorian.

“We’re not cuffing her ASAP?” Claudia asked. She’d bought into Artie’s paranoia. “I mean, what if she goes all Jason Bourne on us?”

“She’s been in there for over a hundred years,” Artie replied, running through the debronzing process. “Her animus is all screwed up. It’ll take her hours to recover.”

The bronzing chamber hummed ominously. Myka took a half-step forward, as if she could see into it. The statue they’d loaded inside had been slender and well-formed, but it’d told her nothing of the person underneath. The expression had been carefully blank, like a partisan facing a firing squad. It made Myka wonder how voluntary the process had really been, despite the report. Well, she’d find out.

With a sudden rush, the chamber lurched open. Inside, she caught a glimpse of pale skin and frantically searching eyes in the semi-darkness before the figure collapsed, down on all fours, Myka moving instinctively to her side—”Careful!” Artie cried—and helped to support her. H.G.’s skin was almost as cool as the metal that had covered it for so long, but it was rapidly warming. Myka resisted the urge to rub warmth back into them, instead helping H.G. make the trip to the chairs beside the console.

“Back up,” she called out to her friends. “Give her some space.”

As she helped H.G. into the chair, her hair brushed against Myka’s face. It even smelled of bronze—harsh, metallic. Myka backed away. A corner of H.G.’s face had caught some light, revealing a glimmering trail of liquid. Sweat or tears? Myka wiped it away and felt H.G. burning up.

“Easy,” Myka said, patting at her face with a tissue. “Just… stay calm, okay? Do you need anything?”

“My—eyes—” the woman worked out fitfully, shivering now.

“Still too much light,” Myka muttered, now pulling off Pete’s coat (“Hey!”) and throwing it over H.G. She shrunk into its voluminous fit. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” H.G. replied at length. “Bearable. What year…?”

“2010. You’re in Warehouse 13. In America.”

“Ah,” H.G. said gently, her voice a faint croon. “So you haven’t blown yourselves up yet. That’s heartening. You do have nuclear weapons by now, I should think?”

“Uh, yeah,” Pete confirmed, leaning over to Claudia. “That’s  _super_ -reassuring.”

“Would you like some water?” Myka asked, finding it difficult not to comfort the obviously stricken woman. She wanted to look under that coat and make damn sure she was okay, but she could also understand how wounded H.G. obviously felt. Myka wouldn’t have wanted to be seen in that state either. “I mean, your throat sounds a little…”

“A fag,” H.G. replied, “would be nice.”

“Ummmm…” Pete trailed off. “I might’ve experimented in college, if that would help? I love the ladies, though… but big on showtunes, that’s a different thing.”

“She means a cigarette,” Myka said, not quite able to keep her disbelief at Pete’s antics out of her voice, even in front of a guest. “Are you sure, H.G.? You know, we found out they cause cancer. It’s a filthy habit.”

“It has a lot of company,” H.G. retorted. “The hefty one, he has some. Left jacket pocket.”

“I am not hefty!” Artie was saying, even as Claudia fished a pack of Marlboros out of his jacket. “Hey!”

“Artie,” Claudia tsked.

“I’m down to one a day, alright? I’ve had that pack for a month.”

Claudia tossed the cigarettes to Myka, who popped one out and offered it to H.G. H.G. didn’t take it, instead leaning forward to clasp it between her teeth. Her lips, to Myka’s surprise, weren’t set in a scowl, but instead a sort of chronic smirk, momentarily dialed down as she got her bearings. “And a light?” H.G. offered around the cigarette.

Myka’d never had so much as a bubble pipe, but she kept a lighter at the ready, along with a pocket knife, a length of cord, and a few other useful Bat-items. All part of being a Warehouse agent, where you never knew when bubble gum and spray-paint could come in handy.

She hunched down in front of H.G., offering up the lighter and flicking the wheel when it became obvious H.G. wouldn’t take it. Maybe her hands weren’t working. Maybe they were just shaking. Myka remembered being the new girl at school. She wouldn’t let the bastards see her bleed either.

The flint took a while to catch—Myka hadn’t checked the fuel since the episode with the haunted fireworks. Finally, she got a good flame going—and caught a look at H.G.’s face. In the slow moment that followed, H.G. leaning forward to bury the tip of the cigarette in Myka’s flame, she had ample opportunity to study it. It was something to be thankful for. H.G. was the most beautiful woman Myka had ever seen. Her eyes shone with clear intelligence, while her high cheekbones put Myka’s sister to shame. And the confidence made Myka think of looking in a mirror after being trusted to protect the President, seeing the unabashed certainty, almost arrogance, that had swallowed up all feelings of doubt and anxiety. This woman, who’d been asleep for a hundred years, was that sure of herself, all the time.

And yet, as Myka kept looking, as the tip of the cigarette turned into an ember and H.G. stared right back, she detected something more. A pain that lurked in the corner of H.G.’s eye, on one side of her smile. Like the string on a mask, it hinted at something more underneath. Something Myka was suddenly breathless to uncover.

H.G. moved back, blowing out the lighter flame with the corner of her mouth. The sudden plunge into darkness left only the cherry end of her cigarette as light, reflected in her eyes like pinpricks in whatever curtain was between the face H.G. presented to the world and her inner fire.

Myka blushed and moved away herself, wondering just how much poetry was too much, because she was clearly on the wrong side of that.

Stiffly, H.G. moved her hand up to her face—the fingers were long and uncalloused, the nails short and red, as if she’d beautified herself before going under. Without a single tremor, she clinched the cigarette between two slender fingers and dragged it off her lips, then took the time to blow out an elegant stream of smoke before asking “What’s the problem? Or have you woken me up to bask in the socialist utopia along with the rest of you?”

“Nobody let her watch Rocky IV,” Pete stage-whispered.

H.G.’s eyes sidled over to Myka. She took another drag from her cigarette, savoring it before exhaling through her nostrils. “Perhaps you’re just looking for some intelligent conversation?”

“The neutralizer goo isn’t working,” Artie said.

“You mean the Psychic Impediment Liquid?” H.G. took in their blank stares. “It’s purple…? Oh dear god, please tell me ‘goo’ is an acronym of some sort.”

“We… may have called it purple goo as a sort of nickname,” Claudia said.

“Sometimes I think I judged Crowley too harshly… I did study the PIL quite extensively, even managed to condition it into a kind of bag. Before that, we had to use radioactive oilcloth. Yes, I’d be happy to restore your goo to working order, so long as you don’t intend to put me back in the bronze. If that’s the case, you’ll understand if I reply to your offer with a cheerful ‘bugger off,’ no hard feelings.” H.G. gave them a blinding smile before returning the cigarette to her mouth.

“For a nicotine addict, she has great teeth,” Pete muttered.

“Quiet!” Myka blurted, finding it hard enough to dismiss the thought of those teeth around the lobe of an ear, or a nipple… “We won’t put you back in the bronze if you don’t want to go.”

“Wait a minute, what does she care?” Pete insisted, advancing on the seated H.G. like a detective catching a suspect in a lie. “For all you know, if we put you under again, you’ll wake up in your precious socialist utopia. (Which reminds me, she can’t watch Red Dawn either.)”

“Take your partner’s suggestion. Be quiet,” H.G. said, a hint of a threat entering her voice. She worked the cigarette around with her teeth, smoke seeping off it angrily. “And don’t move. But first, go someplace where no one will ever see you or talk to you or so much as think of you. Then try that for a hundred years. Maybe you’ll wake up in a world without your hated Red Socks.” She took a deep, calming suck on the cigarette. “By the way, thin walls here. Voices tend to carry from Aisle 87J…”

“People aren’t  _awake_  in bronze,” Artie insisted.

“I’m sure that’s what the Regents told you. They told me that too. But then, it’s not as if they’d bronze someone for a hundred years to test that. An hour in bronze is nothing, a blip. But a year… a decade… a  _century.”_  She blew smoke out her nose like a bull about to charge. “It’s 2010, you say? Then I’d put the rate at five conscious hours for every year spent in bronze.”

“Oh God,” Myka said, soft enough to not even realize she’d spoken.

“But you aren’t putting me back,” H.G. said, as if she were the one comforting Myka instead of the other way around. “So there’s no need to worry. Could you help me to my feet, Agent…?”

“Bering,” Myka said quickly, giving H.G. her arm. H.G. took it not so much with strength as tenacity, pulling herself up to a teetering stand. Even when she let go of Myka’s arm, Myka stayed nearby in case she stumbled, her fingers itching to catch her.

H.G. seemed to laser in on that thought, offering Myka a wan smile as she stubbed out her cigarette. “Myka Bering,” she said, tasting the name. Then, off Myka’s surprised look. “Voices carry, remember? It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Killing the smile as if it had just been for Myka, H.G. faced Artie, pulling the coat tighter around herself in preparation for a trip into the light. “Well then, show me to the Impediment Production Apparatus. I’ll want to check for any impurities at the source.”

“We call it the gooery.”

H.G. suppressed her sigh just enough so that only Myka heard it.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where is the ledger?” H.G. demanded. Upon reaching the gooery, she had stumbled around, clearly expecting to find something, before leaning against a pipe in a sort of collapse. Flustered, she had lifted her face into the light enough to issue some hate mail. “How can I be expected to fix your machine without its ledger?”

“What ledger?” Artie demanded right back. “What is all this about a ledger? We don’t know  _anything_  about any ledger.”

“The ledger,” H.G. began slowly, “in which all modifications to the Impediment Production Apparatus are chronicled, so that I can study which has led to the current malfunction. Has the Queen’s English entirely devolved since my time?”

“There isn’t a ledger,” Claudia spoke up. “We don’t modify the gooery. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Your ‘gooery’ is the product of the belief systems of seventeen secret societies, eldritch magic, a one-of-a-kind invention by Jules Verne, and technology flung back in time from one mister Einstein. If even the slightest element is out of sorts, the Psychic Impediment Liquid could be rendered as Dwarf Suppressant Gel, Hallucination Enhancement Odor, or even Arousal Addition Foodstuffs.”

“Your mouth is making those sound like bad things,” Pete said.

“Suffice to say that the system is so sensitive it might take decades for flaws to show up in the manufacturing product. So you can see the imperative nature of my request.”

“Well, it’s hard with all the big words,” Pete retorted, feeling defensive.

“Pete, could you look around please?” Myka asked. “And Claudia, there might be _something_  in the database. Artie, if you could check your archives, maybe you put the ledger there for safekeeping.”

“Good ideas all.” H.G. righted herself once more, now walking with a hitch in her step, clutching the coat around her out of reflex. “I’ll be in the bronze section if you need me.”

Myka felt Artie look at her more than saw it. She followed after H.G., already thinking up an excuse. She could always claim she wanted to make sure H.G. was recuperating properly. It wasn’t that far from the truth.

In the bronze section, H.G. had turned the lights up a little. It reminded Myka of a full moon. She stopped in the doorway and watched as H.G.’s head emerged from the folds of the coat that encircled her like a straitjacket, her hair spilling down the back. She walked through the rows of bronze statues, head craning this way and that, crawling from one step to another.

“I wanted to see it from another angle,” H.G. said. “I looked at it from one place… for so long… have you ever read of Plato’s Cave, Agent Bering?”

“Yes, I have.”

“It came to feel like someone was holding a picture in front of my face, blinding me, and if I could just look past it… I know why you’re here. You’re worried I’m a little mad. I do believe I am. Around, I should say, the 1960s I began having conversations with these statues. I named them. I gave them personalities. I pretended they were friends, family members… it’s interesting to see what their other sides look like. I miss them a little. I was planning to finally talk to Bertie about his opium problem in 2016.”

“We’re not putting you back,” Myka assured her. “I get that you’re afraid of that and I do not blame you one bit, but I wouldn’t let anyone be that cruel. Friend or enemy.”

“I have the most irrational urge to believe you. As if you’re my friend.”

“I would like to be.” Myka felt heat rise in her cheeks. She was going too fast, being too obvious, and she would alienate H.G. like the nerdy flake she was, yet she couldn’t stop. “I think you’re going to have a lot of friends here. I just want to go first.”

“I’ll try to oblige… Myka.”

Myka twitched a smile. God, what happened to being a Secret Service agent? When did she go back to being a schoolgirl with a crush? “Would you like to sit down? I’m not sure it’s a good idea to exert yourself so much.”

“I could be convinced to take a seat, if you would be so kind as to bring me one. Right here.” H.G. stumbled over to a space between two vicious-looking statues. “Exactly opposite where I was placed. Everything I couldn’t see. I want a good long look at it.”

Myka picked up an office chair and carried it over to H.G., who collapsed into it a bit too quickly to play off. She leaned back tiredly, kneading her fingers on her knees. Myka felt an inexplicable urge to help her, put a hand on her thigh and squeeze life back into her leg. She wondered gregariously what H.G. could do with all her strength. Run a marathon? Kempo down a gang? What could the body that held such a brilliant mind be capable of?

“Did you ever see me as a statue?” H.G. asked suddenly.

“No. Not until we unbronzed you. I just got a… quick peek.” Myka didn’t know why she chose those words. It seemed a lot of her conduct with H.G. was going on autopilot, or rather instinct. It should’ve been frustrating for a woman as ordered as she was, but it wasn’t. Again, she didn’t know why.

“I was somewhat concerned with how I should look, before I went in. I wanted to look my best, naturally, but I would be shallow indeed if that were my sole concern. If the only aspect of me to be discerned from was to be my body, I wanted it to express something of my soul. I don’t think it worked. I think I looked brash.”

“What do you mean?” Myka asked, putting a hand on H.G.’s shoulder as if to steady her. As if she would fall right through her chair without Myka’s help.

“I wanted to show… my optimism. My hope for a better future awaiting me. What I failed to convey was the truth. I’ve had nothing but the truth to face for the last hundred years. The lies have all dried up. And the lie I told myself was that I was doing this to get to a brighter future. The truth being that any future is bright to a past as dark as mine.”

“I read your file. Your past isn’t…”

“If you’ve read my file, then there’s no need to repeat it,” H.G. said, so quickly it was like the words had been lurking under her earnest confession, ready to pounce. “I’ve lost the plot. I apologize. I was trying to explain… there is something I need of you. And perhaps you’d suspect it’s some plot on my part, some trick, but I would never lie when it comes to my Christina. I’m asking you to trust me.”

Myka didn’t know what to say. Her instincts did. “I want to… Give me a chance to trust you. We’ll see where it needs.”

“There is something of mine in the Escher Vault. Nothing dangerous, I promise… a locket. With a picture of Christina. I would like it back, please.”

“I’ll talk to Artie. He’s nicer than he looks. I’m sure, in time…”

“As soon as possible,” H.G. said, not snapping but close to it. “I cannot be patient. I’m trying to, and I have not the strength… They were supposed to let me out in 1950. They didn’t. For whatever reason, they did not. They left me there. With what was left of my lies. I tried to drive myself crazy. I told myself that I was in purgatory, and soon my sins would go the way of my flesh and I’d be pure enough to enter the Kingdom. With my Christina. We’d do all the things I never got to do with her. I imagined it, over and over again. Running into her arms. Kissing her cheek. I tried to bend my mind to the breaking point, to make myself truly believe that we were back together. But instead, I rubbed what memories I had of her as smooth as a rock under a waterfall. I can’t remember her face, Myka. I need it. You offered me water, but I need her face back so much more, more than air, more than being out of that bronze cage. If I’d had one more look at her, I could’ve gone another thousand years as a statue.”

Myka peeled her hand away from H.G.’s shoulder. H.G. was crying, a century of tears. Without sobbing, without breathing, her sorrow dripped from her cheeks and perched on her trembling chin. The intensity of her emotion was frightening. Myka knew better than most that sometimes there was nothing you could do with grief. Friends couldn’t help, pills couldn’t help, psychologists couldn’t help. All you could do was let it sink its teeth into you. H.G.’s sorrow had hunted her for a century, and maybe she’d found a kind of détente with it in the bronze, convinced herself that she was being punished for her sins. There were times Myka had felt that way about losing Sam.

But now H.G. was out in the open, with nothing to protect her. The shock to her system had left her unable to defend herself. All Myka could do was stand there.

So that’s what she did.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone,” she said, and gave H.G. her hand. H.G. took it and squeezed. You could almost have believed it hadn’t helped—the tears came faster, her body shook with their assault—but slowly she brought Myka’s hand to her face and pressed it against her cheek. She felt the warmth, the striations of her joints and the cool calm of her fingernails. Her tears wedded to Myka’s skin, ran between her knuckles, down her fingers, hung pregnant off the pads of her fingers.

Gently, reverently, H.G. moved Myka’s fingers to her mouth. So slowly she might as well have asked permission, she pursed her lips to Myka’s fingertips and kissed away her own tears. Hot and salty and real. She’d cried many times in her dreams, but she’d forgotten how they tasted. Finally, she could remember. Finally, she was free.

“I… thank you.” H.G. pushed Myka’s hand away. “I promise not to subject you to that again.”

“It’s okay,” Myka said. “Anything to help a friend.”

***

H.G. just had time to recover before Artie brought in the ledger. It’d been behind a sofa in the office. H.G. threw herself into her work, demanding to know why the Warehouse had been so set on reducing the gooery’s CO2 emissions. Myka held back, watching H.G. as if she might break down in tears again at any moment. But H.G. was made of sterner stuff than that. She showed no sign of her earlier emotions except when Myka caught her eye, which seemed to compel them to share a small, potent smile.

Finally, Myka felt safe excusing herself to go to the Escher Vault with Artie. Of course, he wouldn’t let her remove the locket before it could be tested six ways to Sunday. Myka had expected that. But she at least talked Artie into bringing her along for the initial examination, which netted him no death-traps. She returned to find H.G. working alone, having completely taken over the small workspace she’d been given with notes and scrawled theories.

“Got a minute?” Myka asked, seeing H.G. stuck on a thorny problem, biting the nail of her thumb in a way that she could only describe as adorable (albeit not to H.G.’s face).

H.G. unfurled her crossed arms, now using them to crack her neck. “Nearly tea time anyway. I find that pausing for a spot of Earl Grey is the best way to lull a nasty little obstacle into a false sense of security.”

Myka smiled along with her, letting it fall away naturally. She didn’t feel right bringing H.G. this news after they’d shared a laugh. “Artie wants to make sure the locket is… safe, before he releases it to you.”

H.G. shrunk down as if struck, but she nodded anyway. Absently, like the real her was deep inside at the moment, hiding. “Yes. I… I should’ve expected that. Not your fault, Agent Bering.”

“But I was able to get a look at it and… phones these days, they can… you don’t even know what a phone is… here.”

Myka presented her cell phone to H.G. H.G. glanced at it curiously, then snatched it out of Myka’s hands like a woman possessed. She stared, paralyzed, at the scan Myka had taken of her daughter.

H.G. bit her lip. She closed her eyes and exhaled and Myka so wanted to embrace her, to add what physical intimacy she could to what H.G. was feeling. But she didn’t want to intrude.

“I have her back,” H.G. said softly. “She’s right where I left her… may I keep this?”

“Sure. I use my Farnsworth more anyway.”

H.G. nodded, absent again, but this time Myka imagined her going to some beautiful part of her that had been locked away for far too long. Myka turned to give H.G. a moment alone, but a hand at her arm stopped her. H.G.’s grip was firm and sure, almost desperate in its strength.

“The others don’t trust me,” she said, staring into Myka’s eyes. “They’re right not to. I’ve been… less than well. It’s foolish to treat me differently. Yet you do. You try to make things easier for me. Perhaps that’s your job… good cop, bad cop… but I can’t bring myself to think that. So, to be frank, I do appreciate your treatment of me. I hope one day to return the favor.”

“Just get the ‘Impediment Production Apparatus’ working again, H.G. We’ll call it even.”

“Call me Helena. It’s what my friends call me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Helena was a workaholic. Myka should’ve expected that; you didn’t become as accomplished as Helena was by resting on your laurels. And of course she had to stay up and watch Helena to make sure she didn’t blow up the world or something equally ridiculous. They talked idly about HG’s books as Helena went through the gooery schematics—Myka trying not to sound like a fangirl at the world’s longest autograph signing, but failing a little when it came to The First Men In The Moon. She just had so many questions, and wanted to know where (in her writing) Helena Wells ended and her brother began.

Helena hummed and nodded her way through the discourse, seeming to enjoy the company, eventually evolving from one-line answers to an engaging discourse. It came out that she was just as curious about the present state of the world, especially when filtered through the perceptions of a woman as insightful as Myka. A firm believer in the World State, she listened raptly as Myka described the shortcomings and triumphs of the United Nations and the European Union, as well as the United States itself, which had become a commonwealth in itself to Helena’s eyes.

Myka must’ve sat down at some point and dozed off at some other. She woke up to the scent of hot coffee. “And what perverse sex act do you want in exchange for that?” she asked before opening her eyes and seeing it wasn’t Pete.

Helena tittered at her blush. “It’s on the house, but toast and jam will cost you.”

“It was just a joke. A Pete joke. A joke Pete and I have. I’m not sleeping with him and I wouldn’t really prostitute myself for coffee, even if that’s the only way to afford Starbucks these days.”

“Myka, honestly, if any more blood travels to your head, I fear you’ll pass out.”

Helena handed Myka the mug so both hands were free to sort through her papers, scattered as they were across the desk. Myka looked at the coffee, as if there would be a poison label on it. Helena had already drank, leaving a faint imprint of lipstick on the rim. Myka drank from the opposite side. It was stronger than she would’ve expected from HG. She liked it.

Helena thumped her papers on the desk, squaring them into an even stack. “I do believe I’ve found your problem. Someone’s been growing cannabis in the Impediment Production Apparatus’ ultraviolet room. Normally harmless, but the impurities in the PIL add up quickly. On the plus side, if you could find a way to smoke it…”

Myka laughed, her shoulders bouncing like a weight was off them. It wasn’t just having the gooery fixed. It was having the gambit with Helena pay off. “I’m drawing up a list of suspects and it is long. But you can fix it?”

“Remove the marihuana, brew more goo. The problem resolves itself. I build my machines to last.”

“And your coffee. I can feel it in my veins.” Myka took a sip to show she meant that in a good way.

“You’re not the first person to feel like I’m in their blood.” Helena’s eyes filled in her words’ blanks. “All the others seemed to find it most enjoyable.”

Myka imagined it for a half-second. Being drunk on Helena. She smiled uneasily, trying to show she wasn’t scared by the notion. “We should get this to Artie. The sooner this is fixed, the better.”

“And the sooner we can get to bed,” Helena added with an artful yawn. She left the sleeping arrangements to Myka’s imagination.

 

***

 

Artie wasn’t overjoyed about the solution, but then he wasn’t overjoyed about anything. He was, however, notably not grouchy. He gave Myka a pat on the head and mumbled about taking care of the weed in a way that, if this were LA Confidential, would make Myka suspect he was James Cromwell.

Helena faded into the background, only speaking when she was all the way in the shadows. “And what of me?” The question of the bronze hung above her like a landslide. Her face was set to register the impact.

Artie had obviously already thought about it. He answered without hesitation. “Myka will take you to the bed and breakfast. You can get some sleep, catch up on things while the Regents access your case. I plan on giving you a recommendation for active duty.”

Helena didn’t move, but Myka had heard her voice enough to know the relief there. “I’m always happy to be of service.”

 

***

 

Still nursing the energy Helena’s coffee had given her, Myka drove them to the bed and breakfast. She introduced Helena to Leena, who complimented her on her aura, and they were persuaded to take some fresh-baked cookies before retiring. Helena melted into the taste of the chocolate chips and the comfort of the sofa. Myka, collapsed on the arm-chair, wished she had a camera. It was the first time she had seen Helena with eyes closed, guard down.

A long sigh and a small sob. Myka knew then that Helena wasn’t just relaxing. She’d been so expecting the bronze that the lack of disaster had actually come as a shock. Knowing her history, it wasn’t hard to see why. So she needed a moment to center herself—or the privacy to collapse altogether.

Myka stood, cracking her back, objections from her joints noted and ignored. “Let’s get you to bed,” she told Helena, offering her hand.

Leena had been preparing a room for Helena ever since hearing she would be debronzed. Obviously there was only so much she could do, not knowing the woman yet, but she didn’t want Helena’s first night of freedom to be in motel room sterility. She put fresh flowers in the vases, filled a candy dish, and stocked the fridge with food Helena would recognize from the 1900s.

Myka led her inside, silently thanked Leena for her helpfulness. She went to the bed, pulling the covers back and patting the mattress. Even Myka thought she saw some Freud in that. Not that Helena would’ve noticed. She was bent nearly double over the vanity, supported only by her steepled arms. Her reflection in the mirror seemed unbearably private, a glimpse behind a mask Myka had no right to take off. Myka was drawn to her pain the same way light would go to a black hole. There was no choice in the matter. “What is it?” she asked, already having thought of an answer. She felt Helena didn’t just need to be soothed, she needed to talk.

Helena saw Myka’s face in the mirror, radiating compassion. She didn’t turn. “I haven’t seen my reflection in over a hundred years.”

Myka put her head on Helena’s slender and fragile-feeling shoulder. She squeezed just enough to make sure Helena knew she was there. “You look beautiful.”

“Pete could’ve told me that,” Helena quipped. “No. It’s not that. I was smiling.” She looked at her mouth as if suspicious of it. “It’s been  _well_  over a hundred years since I smiled.” Helena’s face set in a decision. She uncinched her waistcoat, the same one she’d been frozen in, and shucked it off fast. Her body looked very frail without it. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a pale arm, a garter belt, and secured by the garter, a knife. Myka sucked in breath, but didn’t feel threatened. It seemed impossible Helena would hurt her.

“My last resort,” Helena explained, setting it on the dresser. The knife had left a mark on her skin.

Myka let out that breath she’d been holding. “That’s what you were going to do if they decided to bronze you again? Stab your way out?”

Helena looked at her reflection. Tired eyes behind limp hair. The face she’d expected to see. “It wasn’t for someone else.”

Immediately, Myka grabbed the knife and held it far away from Helena. The reaction was almost instinctive.

“Yes, take it,” Helena said, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”

Myka set the knife down on a table and approached Helena again. She gathered up her straying hair, daubed the stillborn tears from the bags under her eyes, even scrubbed the old make-up from Helena’s face. All the expended energy made Helena chuckle.

“Thanks for telling me,” Myka said finally, now just petting HG’s hair. “You’re not alone. Ever. You can tell me anything.”

“I fear I’ve told you too much already. Scared you off.”

“I’m a Warehouse agent. I don’t scare easy.”

“Nevertheless, perhaps we should call it a night. I’m in a mood for solitude.”

“I’ll be right next door if you need anything,” Myka said, nearly whispering in Helena’s ear.

Helena stopped Myka from moving away, just by turning her head. Myka was caught by her eyes. They held her firm. “I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Were you the one who brought me back? Did you learn of my story somehow and know I could help? Did you free me?”

Myka smiled. It could be a joy to explain. “I read about you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Myka read.

 

_"Like attracts like," explained Mrs. Mailey, who was quite as capable an exponent as her husband. "You get what you deserve. If you sit with wicked people you get wicked visitors."_

_"Then there is a dangerous side to it?"_

_"Do you know anything on earth which has not a dangerous side if it is mishandled and exaggerated? This dangerous side exists quite apart from orthodox Spiritualism, and our knowledge is the surest way to counteract it. I believe that the witchcraft of the Middle Ages was a very real thing, and that the best way to meet such practices is to cultivate the higher powers of the spirit. To leave the thing entirely alone is to abandon the field to the forces of evil."_

 

Myka tried to parse the words, but they ran out of her eyes like tears.

 

After she'd relinquished the knife, Helena had said nothing. Just sat down on her new bed and eventually laid down and eventually gone to sleep. Myka had watched. It had only taken a few minutes. Later that night, when she'd finally left the room, she called Artie. She didn't mention the suicidal ideation—really hated having such a clinical term for it—but she insisted on how beneficial Helena would find therapy. Artie agreed readily, but didn't ask too many questions. She appreciated it more than words could say.

 

Helena had been hesitant at first—not truly resistant, because the woman was stubborn enough to fight her way into Perdition—but nervous. It took the implicit threat of not being reinstated as an Agent for her to give in and see Dr. Goodborn. Myka had delivered her to her appointment, wondering if this was how a mother felt dropping her kid off for the first day of school. Helena was no longer nervous, more resigned to a stiff upper lip, and Myka did her best to assure Helena her confidence was well-placed. But for the first time they'd known each other, Helena was distant.

 

Two hours passed, with Myka in the waiting room and Helena cut off from her. Myka tried to concentrate on her Kindle. She'd been rereading her friend's work, but ever since the knife, she'd had too much trouble reconciling the optimistic sci-fi with its writer. So she'd been reading Helena's contemporaries. Now she was on the third of Arthur Conan Doyle's Challenger books, The Land of Mist. And she ended up making such an effort to engross herself that she didn't even notice Helena leaving Goodborn's office and sidling up to her.

 

"Arthur became quite the zealot after his losses," Helena said at Myka's shoulder, staring at the text without any of the usual comments about technological innovation. "I used to give him hell for that. Now it makes far too much sense."

 

"And yet you didn't become a nun."

 

"If I thought, with only a mote of doubt, that I'd see my daughter again in the world beyond, I still wouldn't take the risk of never seeing my Christina." Helena sat down. "You know the story?"

 

"When we found the ledger, it… explained."

 

Helena sat there. She moved only sporadically. Myka wished she could touch her—take her hand and give her an anchor, embrace her and squeeze all the painful memories out of her like bad blood from a wound. But she didn't know how. Sensing one wrong moment could implode the delicate façade Helena was so obviously struggling to maintain, Myka felt drunken and useless.

 

"How'd you like Dr. Goodborn?" she asked finally.

 

Helena kept up her infrequent, random movements. She uncomfortably reminded Myka of a corpse twitching. "Not as bad as I'd feared, not as good as I'd hoped." With a deep breath, Myka couldn't see her emotion anymore. Just the _joie de vivre_ she seemed to broadcast at all times. "Why are we still here? This place is positively despairing. Look at the décor. Is it supposed to be classical? I resent the implication it belongs to my century. God help us if it's meant to be rustic…"

 

Myka obediently laughed and went to get the door for Helena, who on the way out took her arm and gave her a little hurrying tug. Walking arm in arm; sooner or later, Helena would realize people didn't really do that anymore. Myka supposed that sooner would be less embarrassing—but she hoped it'd be later. She liked hanging onto HG.

 

By the time they were out of the lobby and in the bright South Dakota sun, HG seemed revived. The only problem was that Myka couldn't stop seeing the pain Helena carried; her face when she'd revealed the knife she'd kept clutched to her skin like a talisman. Even her appearance in the psychiatrist's office had just been a pale reflection of that secret, sublime hurt.

 

Myka wondered if it'd been as obvious when she'd felt the same way.

 

"You know, they've actually filmed a number of your books," she said, trying for a brightness she didn't feel. "George Pal's War of the Worlds is considered a classic in its own right and Pete has the Blu-Ray. We could watch it right now. And have you tried Leena's tea? It would go down great with a movie. I actually went to Britain in college, and I promise Leena's is still the best I've tasted…"

 

"Do you intend to baby me all afternoon?" Helena's sarcasm was slight, but almost shrill when compared to her usual fond voice with Myka.

 

Myka looked at her squarely. "Yes. If you know of something else I can do when you're going through this, then please let me know. I'll do that."

 

Helena met her gaze. Myka got both an impression of immense stubbornness and a sense that H.G. was _boiling_ , fixated on some unsolvable problem inside her head. But there was only so dark she could be on a sunshiny day. With pinched lips, she said "I should like to go swimming."

 

"That's doable."

 

"You'll need to buy me a bathing suit."

 

"Alright."

 

"And an ice cream."

 

"Don't push it."

 

Helena held out her hand. "Lead the way, Agent."

 

Myka did, taking out her keys to once more chauffeur Helena through Univille. She just knew it wasn't over yet. Whatever Helena had talked about in her therapy sessions, her old wounds had been ripped open. Whatever bandages had been put on them, Myka had no idea if they'd hold.

 

***

 

It was disconcerting for Myka to realize that she had no idea how much of the Helena she'd befriended was a façade and how much was genuine personality. She knew about putting on a brave face, or at least a professional one, but how many of H.G.'s smiles were real and how many were… what? Snake oil? Social lubricant? Seduction?

 

_Now_ she was just being crazy.

 

Whoever the real Helena was, she didn't show herself fully on the way to the Univille Mall. She stayed unusually quiet, but didn't brood—just stared out the window and reacted to some of the sights of Univille with scientific curiosity. Something as simple as a storefront display of TVs could floor her. Even though she knew, intellectually, that they were no big deal, seeing so many of them in one place overcame her. Endless wonder.

 

When they went into the mall, Helena didn't take her arm. Myka wondered if she was really that offended by being coddled—surely she knew it was practically Myka's _job_ to see to her well-being. Or maybe she just wasn't in the mood for some sisterly handholding.

 

The shopping situation in Univille was predictably dire. There was an Abercrombie, a Hollister, and the big-box stores. It was so bad that once Claudia had said she missed Hot Topic, before slapping herself. Myka had long ago bitten the bullet and accepted the number of Pete's online tailor, which he swore was a thing. It kept her in duty clothes, while off-duty…

 

For off-duty clothes, she went to K-Mart. She went K-Mart like she was guarding the President while he gave a speech in Afghanistan. In an Al Qaeda terrorist camp. Built atop an Indian graveyard. Get in, get out, don't make eye contact. The last shopping trip she'd made, she'd ended up with a shirt that said "Don't hate me because you're a douchebag." She didn't even know what that meant. It was possible it had latched onto her as she enacted her exit strategy, trying to flip her from Smeagol to Gollum.

 

But today, she hunkered down, put on her big-girl panties, and took Helena to the swimwear department. Quick as a switch, Helena had selected a barrage of suits that appealed to her and disappeared into the changing room. Myka waited outside with the mirrors, comparing her current trepidation to her feelings earlier, delivering Helena to her first appointment. She was a little less worried, but at this rate, she'd still be at risk of a heart attack by Christmas.

 

"Well, these are far more comfy than any of the suits back home," Helena said through the door. Myka looked up in surprise. All she could see were Helena's bare feet, padding around as she changed. "We were expected to wear wool dresses down to our knees, _over_ our bloomers, _with_ stockings and slippers and these caps that did absolutely unspeakable things to one's hair. And good luck finding a bathing suit without a sailor collar, of all the unflattering things. Yes, this is much better."

 

She stepped out of the changing room, proudly displaying her chosen suit.

 

"Uhh," Myka said, "that's a men's bathing suit."

 

"Yes, so? It fits perfectly well, it's comfortable, and I daresay it's more modest than most of the suits sold here. These trunks come all the way down to my knees!"

 

"The bottom is fine, it's the top that's a problem."

 

"What about it?"

 

"There isn't one."

 

Helena looked around. Her chest did seem to be gathering some attention. "I would've thought the female nipple would've lost its taboo by now. I found numerous images on the internet of women going topless—"

 

"Yes, those were pornography."

 

"That would explain all the black men. I had just thought miscegenation was trendy. I suppose I'll have to stop hitting on Leena."

 

"No, you can still do that. She'll just turn you down unless you're really Lana Parrilla."

 

"Who?"

 

"Don't ask me, I stopped watching ABC the moment they announced Splash. If they're not going to bother trying, why should I?" Myka smiled despite herself. She'd missed having a chat with Helena that wasn't about gloom or doom.

 

Then she realized she was smiling at Helena's tits and stopped. "You should probably try something a little more feminine."

 

Helena stepped back into the changing room. "If you insist."

 

"And I lied about the bottoms being okay; they're board shorts."

 

***

 

Helena settled on a red one-piece that Myka was ninety percent sure she'd picked because she'd done a Google image search for swimsuits and gotten a lot of Baywatch results. High spirits again as Myka drove her to the pool, where she was overjoyed to find swimming had become a co-ed affair. No bathing machines.

 

"I swear," Helena reminisced, "they had horses. Horses to pull the box that conveyed you from the beach to the sea, all so no one could see your calves. This is much better." She glanced over at a line of suntanners by the pool. "Yes. Excellent calves."

 

It was just a typical YMCA pool, with a shallow end and a deep end and a few swimming lanes on the far side. Helena looked around, sumptuously pleased with the simple set-up. When her eyes hit the diving boards, she fell in love.

 

"Helena?" Myka said gently, pursuing her as she made a beeline to the high-board. "H.G., are you going to--?" Helena started climbing the ladder. "Is this absolutely your best idea, Helena?"

 

"Of course not, I invented space travel." Helena continued ascending. "But this is a very fair idea."

 

"You were made of metal earlier in the week. Maybe swimming shouldn't be so high on your to-do list."

 

"Tosh!" Helena said, which Myka didn't understand, but she got the gist of it.

 

Myka could do nothing more than watch as Helena mounted the board, stepped to the edge, gracefully gathered herself like a ballerina going en pointe, then jumped.

 

Myka held her fingers in front of her eyes, but peeked through them.

 

Helena hit the water with nary a ripple. She stayed underneath for a moment—Myka would later admit to herself that she had strongly considered jumping in to lifeguard her—then kicked her way to the surface with strong, sure legs. Helena came up like she was auditioning for a live-action remake of The Little Mermaid.

 

"Join me?" she said, swimming to the poolside where Myka was standing.

 

Myka fisted her hands in her band shirt. Her jeans were also inappropriate for water sports. "I didn't bring my suit."

 

"You're wearing underwear, aren't you?" Helena narrowed her eyes. " _Aren't you?_ "

 

"Of course I'm wearing—" Myka lowered her voice as a gaggle of kids scampered around them. "I can't go swimming in my underwear."

 

Helena nodded to a woman in a two-piece bikini. "She is."

 

"That's a bikini. There's a difference."

 

"What is it?"

 

Myka opened her mouth and slowly closed it.

 

Helena smiled up at her, perching her elbows on the edge of the pool. "What about we use the Jacuzzi? No one's in it now, that'll afford us some privacy. After how you saw me in K-Mart, surely I'm entitled to see you in your underthings."

 

"Don't tell people I was in K-Mart," Myka whispered.

 

***

 

The Jacuzzi was deserted, warm, and relaxing. Myka wore her towel around her right up until she stepped inside. Helena was already in it, waiting for her while she changed. Their possessions were in the corner, under Helena's watchful eye.

 

The swimming pool was built next to a hill, most of it fenced off, but the Jacuzzi placed a little ways up the incline so you had to go up a spiraling cement walk to get to it. Indigo bushes were planted between the winding loops of the path, forming a natural baffle between it and the pool. The running and playing of the swimmers became a sort of white noise for a person to relax to.

 

Not that Myka felt relaxed. Not when Helena responded to her shucking her towel with a little joking, but seemingly sincere applause.

 

"There, see? I felt sure there was a body between all the dowdy clothes of the government functionary."

 

Myka settled in across from Helena. "My clothes are not dowdy. They're professional."

 

"Everyone else seems to go about their work in the clothes of space aliens, while you look like a tax clerk from my time. Why do you think that is?"

 

"Because there is a slight chance of people taking me seriously. That doesn't really happen with Pete."

 

"I take your point." Helena shut her eyes and rested her head against the pillow built into the lip of the hot tub. It put Myka at ease, not being gawked at. Not that she'd been gawked at in the first place. Being looked at by Helena, she felt—appreciated. Which was just a little nice, when working with people who were more likely to believe she was secretly a robot than that she'd had a threesome.

 

Myka similarly tried to relax. Helena didn't seem to be going in for conversation, which meant there was no need for her to try to furiously calculate a way through H.G.'s defenses. They could just bask in their girlpower, or however a platonic Jacuzzi date was supposed to work.

 

They spent ten minutes like that, or maybe more, or maybe less. Myka felt herself start to drift. Her muscles were still tired from all the running and gunning of the new job; she was starting to develop Michelle Obama arms. Being on the Secret Service hadn't been a picnic, but it'd been like a lazy version of combat duty—one percent terror, ninety-nine percent boredom. The Warehouse swapped that, and threw in some Sierra Games logic puzzles to the mix. If it didn't kill her, she'd come out of it toned and well-read enough to date Natalie Portman.

 

Or, you know, a guy.

 

"You're wondering what's bothering me," Helena said suddenly.

 

Groggily, Myka opened her eyes. Had she nodded off? She jerked upright fast enough to duplicate the splash zone at Sea World. Since when did she close her eyes around, potentially, Jack the Gender-swapped Ripper? Why would a scary-smart, scary-athletic, vaguely rogue Warehouse agent put her at ease?

 

Helena ignored the splash, except for raising an arm to protect her hair. "And you're trying to figure out a way to have that conversation with me too subtly for me to know how concerned you are."

 

"Actually, I was just enjoying the hydro-jets. But if you're ready to tell me something…"

 

"Sit down next to me. We'll talk."

 

Myka did, even if walking across the Jacuzzi brought her torso above sea level. She didn't care if Helena saw her bra—her white bra—her _wet_ , white bra. Shit.

 

She didn't care if Helena saw her nipples. Myka sat down beside her, and hoped the saucy grin on Helena's face wasn't for her. "I'm listening."

 

"Surely you noticed that at that very large market, I found my way to a pharmacy and the very accommodating lady there showed me how to fill a prescription."

 

"It's your business," Myka said. "I don't want to pry."

 

"It's your job to pry. Isn't it? I'm your responsibility."

 

"You're also my friend. I can trust my friends."

 

"Trust." Helena laughed a little. "I trust you, Myka. I do trust you. I'm unsure how far to extend that trust. To your friends? To your employers? To the doctors they employ?"

 

"You have to trust your doctor, Helena. It's how you get better."

 

"Yes, and what's wrong with me?" Helena insisted. Her voice was stringent. "I feel what I feel after the time I spent where _they_ put me."

 

"You volunteered—"

 

"I _agreed_." Helena paused. "Do you think I'm crazy?" And before Myka could answer: "When you suggest something to a crazy person, it's your responsibility when they accept."

 

"I don't think you're crazy."

 

"Good, you shouldn't!" Helena gathered some water in her hands and splashed her face. She rubbed it stridently. "Zoloft, they call it. It's supposed to make me feel better."

 

"I've heard of it. It works. And it's not—I don't think it's a very extreme measure."

 

Helena got out of the Jacuzzi. She grabbed a towel and dried herself off. She rubbed at her skin like she'd been soaked in oil and it wouldn't come clean.

 

"You know what mental care was in my day? Laudanum. Lobotomies. Virtual imprisonment—no, that's too kind a word for it. _Kenneling._ And it wasn't just lunacy that was punished. I had lovers ripped from me because they preferred my kisses to a man's. I did what I could to save them, but the Regents were the same sort of men that condemned them in the first place. My efforts were frowned upon. They probably contributed to my eventual— _suggestion._ And you're going to tell me things have changed, how different they are. Whether I'm drug-addled in a cozy room or straitjacketed in a padded cell, I'm still—I am not _me_ in that place, that condition. I'm back in the bronze. I'm having a nightmare."

 

"I was on Eldepryl," Myka said.

 

Helena stopped rubbing. She held the towel in her hands and stared as Myka turned off the water jets. Sat in the staid water.

 

"Eldepryl at first," Myka continued. "Then a bunch of others that I can't remember the name of. Drugs to treat the side effects, then drugs to treat the side effects of the side effects. I'm not on anything now. It was just for a while. If I broke my arm, I would take painkillers until it didn't hurt anymore. And that's the way it went this time."

 

"What hurt?" Helena asked simply.

 

"My partner died. He was more than a friend. I didn't know how to hold myself together without him… not until I _did_. Take the pills, Helena. You won't need them forever. You just need them right now."

 

Helena said nothing. She picked up another towel and held it out for Myka, who got out of the water and allowed herself to be wrapped up. Helena didn't let go of the towel, though. She held it around Myka like a shield.

 

"I know what it's like to lose someone. You'd give anything to have them back. You'd sell your very soul—but the devil isn't buying."

 

Myka nodded absently. She didn't like to talk about it. She knew she had to, but she didn't like it.

 

They got dressed, gathered there things, and Helena walked to the car with the prescription bag clenched tightly in her hand.

 

***

 

Myka was lying in bed when Helena visited. She heard a knock at the door, said that it was open, and Helena just popped in.

 

"Hey."

 

"Hello," Helena said, as if correcting her. Myka smiled lazily. "I took the pill. You're supposed to take it in the evening, so I took it. I don't feel different. Do I… _seem_ different?"

 

Myka looked at her carefully. She had the sense that Helena was begging her in some way—something about her was posed like a supplicant. Finally, she said "The pain in your eyes. It's a little harder to see."

 

Helena shook her head. "That's probably just from being with you. Good night, Myka. Thank you for the picture."

 

"What picture?"

 

"Christina."

 

"Helena, that was days ago. You don't have to keep thanking me."

 

Helena worked her lips. "Nonetheless…" And she closed the door behind her as if fleeing.

 

Myka picked up her book again. She had a feeling sleep wouldn't elude her for much longer. Until then, her eyes stayed glued to the page.

 

_Surely man need not trouble himself with grotesque speculations as to the nature of life beyond the grave. We had enough to do in this world. Life was a beautiful thing. The man who appreciated its real duties and beauties would have sufficient to employ him without dabbling in pseudo sciences which had their roots in frauds, exposed already a hundred times and yet finding fresh crowds of foolish devotees whose insane credulity and irrational prejudice made them impervious to all argument._


	5. Chapter 5

HG would never admit it, but her favorite invention of the modern age was Cheez Whiz. She appreciated the internet and birth control and all that, but something about the way cheese just fizzled out of the can and onto a cracker delighted her. It lightened up a perfectly dreary afternoon of cataloging Mini-Artifacts while Myka was overseas with Pete.

 

Mini-Artifacts were items that had absorbed a very small amount of the emotion that powered real Artifacts. They were lucky charms, mementos, and fantasy prompts. Only harmful in great numbers, they were checked for points of interest, then burnt to power the Warehouse's oversized reactors.

 

Most of today's lot were DVD copies of a movie called Wild Things. Apparently it was a seminal event in the lives of many.

 

Her 'cell phone' rang. She tried to answer it, but it was a text message. She'd never get used to those. Humanity had the ability to see each other on video, as if through a looking glass, but preferred to send wireless telegrams. She opened the text and…

 

Wasn't in the Warehouse anymore. Wasn't holding her phone anymore either, but that hardly seemed important. Helena looked around frantically. She was in the bed and breakfast, in her room. Alone, her bag dropped on the bed, even a cup of pudding on the table. Everything was perfectly in order except for her.

 

She rushed out of her room, down the stairs. Claudia, thank God, was in the living room, watching The Bachelor. As soon as she heard Helena's flats, she flipped to The Simpsons. "I was channel-surfing!"

 

"The Warehouse is in danger," Helena told her. "We have to go."

 

Claudia always kept a go-bag under wherever she parked herself for just such an occasion. She grabbed it and tossed Helena a Tesla before pulling a Farnsworth for herself. "C'mon, Artie, pick up…"

 

He wasn't answering, and Helena couldn't wait any longer. Claudia followed her out the door.

 

***

 

Helena still hadn't got her driver's license, so she allowed Claudia to take the wheel of the Prius and held the Farnsworth as it kept dialing Artie. Not having to keep the car on the road allowed her to fix what had happened in her mind.

 

"The Warehouse has a protocol. If threatened with destruction, it teleports all agents outside the structure to a safe location. Hence, the bed and breakfast."

 

"But Artie wasn't there."

 

"Exactly. He must still be inside, we need to—"

 

Abruptly, the Farnsworth stopped dialing. With a flip of electrons, Artie was on the other end. "Yes, yes, what is it?"

 

Helena took him in without her heartbeat slowing an iota. "Arthur, you're in danger, the whole Warehouse—"

 

Claudia grabbed Helena's wrist with one hand and forced the Farnsworth toward herself. "Yo, you okay?"

 

"I'm _fine_ , what, what is it? Can I leave you people alone for two seconds without—"

 

"The Warehouse is blowing up," Helena insisted.

 

Artie looked elsewhere for a moment, apparently at a read-out. "No. No, definitely not."

 

Claudia hit the steering wheel, adrenaline giving way to frustration. " _Then why didn't you pick up!?_ "

 

"I was in the bathroom!" Artie matched her exasperation for exasperation. "And I knew the second I reached for my brand-new Reader's Digest, something like this would happen. 'Artie, we found Mengele's tongue depressor. Artie, what's the capital of Paraguay?' The toilet is not for work, it is for _meditation!_ "

 

"Then what engaged the Warehouse's evacuation protocol?" Helena demanded.

 

In unspoken agreement, Claudia pointed the Farnsworth back at Helena. Artie was staring through it like the lens was a microscope. "The Warehouse doesn't have an evacuation protocol."

 

***

 

By then, they were at the Warehouse, so they continued the conversation while walking past the bombs. "Warehouse 12," Artie said, "was destroyed when the evacuation protocol stranded all its agents in Liverpool. They didn't have a chance to avert the catastrophe, which started a fire that spread to neighboring… neighborhoods. Ever since then, the evacuation protocol has been controlled manually. Not that we've ever gotten it to work. Right now, it's more of a 'captain goes down with the ship' sort of thing."

 

"So how did I go from the Warehouse to Univille in the blink of an eye?" Helena tried not to sound petulant. Artie wasn't like the other men who dismissed her through the years. He dismissed everyone.

 

"One of the mini-artifacts must've been miscategorized. We'll do a level 5 sweep with level 7 contamination protocols. _You'll_ sit this one out."

 

Claudia stopped short. "Level 5? Aww, Artie, the moonsuits?"

 

The moonsuits were full-body versions of the purple gloves. They were not slimming.

 

***

 

They spent two hours going over the Wild Things DVDs, subjecting them to every test known to man and some man wasn't ready to know about. Helena sat outside the glass enclosure, tapping her nails against her thigh. She wished Myka were here, instead of gloomy Norway, all her charms wasted on that wagging-tail partner of hers.

 

The last test failed. Claudia fairly ripped her beekeeper helmet off. "Nada! All this bad boy's done is give Denise Richards a career."

 

Helena actually kicked the glass in frustration. "Then what is it? Or does everyone just teleport willy-nilly in the future?"

 

Artie's phone rang. He extricated it from his moonsuit like he was trying to get a popcorn kernel that had fallen down the front of his shirt. "Hello?" Then he held his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Leena. Someone left The Bachelor on back at the B&B. Bad feng shui."

 

He explained the situation to her as Claudia went up to Helena.

 

"Don't give me that look," Helena said.

 

"What look?"

 

"The 'what's she up to?' look."

 

"Girl, if anyone's up to something, it's me. I hacked my way into this place and kidnapped the old guy. I should be pissed at you for stealing my thunder. Now you get to be all sexy and mysterious, I'm the kid sidekick."

 

"I find your hair color very mysterious," Helena said.

 

Artie came back, phone closed. "Wells, what time was it when you traveled from the Warehouse to the B&B?"

 

Helena shrugged. "Four o'clock, why?"

 

"And Claudia, what time was it when she came to get you?"

 

"Six," Claudia said, brow furrowing. "I remember cuz the episode was just starting. The episode of a biography about Abraham Lincoln," she added.

 

"Well, one of us must be misremembering the time," Helena reasoned.

 

"Leena saw you drive up to the B&B, park your car, and go inside. She congratulated you on your driving. You thanked her."

 

"I did no such thing!" she insisted. "I would've remembered…"

 

She looked away as their stares turned pitying.

 

***

 

Missing time. A black-out. Once they figured out that was the issue, it was easy to rule out an Artifact. After all, everyone knew time travel was impossible.

 

All it took was some quick bloodwork. She'd lived in the 19th century even before she was bronzed for a hundred years. Her system had chemicals in it that 21st century science didn't expect. They'd combined with the drugs her doctor had given her to inadvertently block a neurotransmitter. Stress had done everything else.

 

She should've seen it coming. If she'd done a few tests, she would've. But she hadn't wanted to think about her madness. She'd just taken her medicine like a good girl.

 

Fortunately, no one had asked what was so stressful about archival work, and no one had noticed she hadn't taken her phone with her when she left the Warehouse. Her last text message still on it. It was from Myka.

 

_Wish you were here in glamorous Norway. Maybe then I wouldn't have gotten myself so banged up. Lots of battle scars for you to ohh over when I get back._

 

It took her dreams that night to tell her what she already knew. She remembered looking at her phone, seeing Myka was hurt. Her mind told her the woman was fine, she was making light of it, it was probably just a few bumps and bruises. But her heart... to her heart, it was like she'd lost someone.

 

Not Christina, nothing was as bad as that, but like Wolcott was dying again. The reminder of being damned rather than the experience of damnation.

 

Helena went down to the kitchen, fixed a pot of tea, and added a generous portion of Irish to her cup. Myka happened on her while she was only one sheet to the wind.

 

“Oh, hey, sorry I missed you, my flight was delayed and I guess you turned in early...” There was a point where even Myka couldn't talk anymore. She folded Helena up in a hug and Helena couldn't bear it. “I heard what happened. I feel so responsible... I shouldn't have told you to take the medication, it was your choice.”

 

Helena broke away. “No, you were right. I've been feeling better. The doctor made a new prescription and I'll be taking it.”

 

Behind Myka's surprise was relief. Helena could read her like one of her own books. She'd been wondering if she should encourage Helena to continue her therapy, wondering if she had the right. It was a stark difference from so many of Helena's old associates, even the well-meaning ones. They'd all known what was best for her.

 

“I'm proud of you,” Myka said.

 

“For giving into the Regents once more.”

 

“For deciding to get better. That was the hardest part for me. So much of me wanted to stew and hate myself and be miserable. Just saying I deserved to be happy seemed impossible.”

 

“I don't know how feasible happiness is. I'd settle for being a little less mad.”

 

She usually didn't like being touched without foreknowledge—there were so many ways it could be an attack. But no one had ever touched her like Myka did. Her hands didn't ask anything of Helena, not even reciprocal pleasure. They simply gave. Settling on Helena's shoulders, squeezing and releasing, but always with a sure grip, ensuring Helena was held fast. Helena knew, as long as she wanted Myka there, she wouldn't let go. She felt the day's stresses being pulled loose from her, like shrapnel plucked out after an explosion, flowing from her to Myka's steady pressure.

 

“You're not crazy, and we both deserve to be happy.”

 

Something—the words and the touch—now made Helena feel she could bear anything. Words stirred in her throat, long-dormant but finally thawing. She could taste them, warm and sweet. _I love you._

 

“I can't lose you,” she whispered instead, because it seemed truer, and easier to say.

 

Myka held her tighter. “You won't.”


	6. Chapter 6

Admitting her attraction to Myka was somewhat freeing for Helena. With the question of whether she could even experience such feelings banished, she could now work on dealing with them. If Myka was the slightest bit amenable, she simply had to be seduced. Unfortunately, this prompted the question of how a woman, and especially a woman such as Myka, might have her virtue so damaged. Like any good writer, here Helena embarked on research.

 

Pete was right out, for reasons going from his name on up. Similarly, she wouldn’t ask Artie how to get a dog to like her. Leena she thought was asexual. This left Claudia.

 

“You have a crush!” Claudia teased, the second Helena came within walking distance of the subject. “A big, scandalous Victorian crush!”

 

“Will you help me or not?”

 

“What, seriously?” Claudia looked at Helena like she’d sprouted a second head… and an Artifact had already been ruled out. “HG Wells needs my help to get laid? I thought you were like… someone who looks like you.”

 

“In my day, there was a good deal more subtlety.”

 

“How subtle can a booty call be?”

 

Helena looked around, her eyes settling on Julie Andrews’ umbrella (“Warning: Does not make user fly.”) She grabbed it and held it daintily off her shoulder. “This meant you were up for shenanigans.” Now she held it under her arm, tipped at a certain angle. “This was asking for hijinx.” Then she held the umbrella behind her back with either hand. “I’ll tell you what this means when you’re older.” She held a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered “ _Tomfoolery.”_

 

Claudia quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah… that’s not gonna play. Come with me. And put that umbrella back before you try to make someone a princess.”

 

“But Artie could be so stately…”

 

***

 

Claudia’s room was a veritable Cave of Wonders to Helena’s eyes, even if most of those wonders were six inches tall and made of plastic, or printed on posters. HG was disappointed to see there was nothing from When The Sleeper Wakes. She’d really thought she’d had something there.

 

“We’re going to practice on this cardboard cut-out of Legolas I have for very good reasons.” Claudia introduced it to Helena. “Frist thing you need to know is cuddling. Just rub yourself all over a dude and you’re halfway there, just need to work on the clothes. The real trick is initiating the cuddle. First comes handholding. I assume you know how to do that?”

 

“I’m not a _virgin._ ”

 

“This one works better in cold weather, which never happens here, but just in case you go somewhere north of Matthew McCoughnahey. ‘Oh no, the ground is slippery. Can someone be a big strong male and help me?’” Claudia linked arms with the standee and rubbed her breasts on it. “Boom. Bonertown.”

 

Helena’s brow furrowed. “Do I want to go to Bonertown?”

 

“That’s a question each woman must ask herself,” Claudia said sagely.

 

Helena proceeded slowly. “How else might I get to… the Bonertown area?”

 

“Right, this one is frakkin’ Inception. Wait for him to say something funny., then give him a little produce section squeeze.” Claudia faked a laugh and fondled Legolas’s cardboard pecs. “’You’re so funny!’ And remember, BTC. Biceps, thigh, chest. You give a dude some butt action, natural as it may seem, they start calling it sexual harassment. Teases.”

 

“What if I’m already doing that, but with my eyes?”

 

“Then you have to take your eye game to the next level. I call this one the Moonlighting Killer, cuz once you bust it out, that UST is getting solved.” Claudia started blinking rapidly. “Hey, Helena, I think I’ve got something in my eye, could you check it?”

 

Helena tried her best not to loom over the shorter woman. She looked down into Claudia’s eyes. Oddly, she wasn’t blinking anymore. Her bright eyes were clear and staring back into Helena’s. Claudia had lovely eyes. Eyes one could lost herself in.

 

Helena stopped just as her lips parted. “Oh. Oh, that is quite good.”

 

“Yeah, I know, right?” Claudia said. “Hey, you wanna make out just a little bit, see if there’s some chemistry there?”

 

“I don’t know, Clauds, aren’t you a little young for her?” Pete slipped by them to get to the Claudia’s mini-fridge and a burrito he had stashed there so it would be his and his alone. “Don’t worry, guys, I’ve assumed women practice kissing in private ever since I was twelve. Laters.”

 

Helena watched him go. “I’m over a hundred years old, anyone that’s not Patrick Stewart is too young for me.”

 

Claudia’s mouth dropped. “I think I ship it.”

 

***

 

Snagging, bagging, and tagging Artifacts was all well and good, but… someone still had to put them on the shelf. It was exhaustively prosaic work. You had to check, double-check, and triple-check the Artifact’s properties just to make sure you had George Washington’s spittoon instead of Barbossa’s spittoon. Then, goo and bag at the ready courtesy of your trusted co-workers, you used adamantium tongs to transfer the Artifacts from its containment case to exactly the right place on the shelf for the power dynamics to neutralize it.

 

Still, Helena preferred it to Warehouse 12’s way of doing things, both because you were allowed to listen to MP3s while you shelved and because the work was no longer done for five shillings by the poor. And people wondered why she’d thought socialism was a good idea.

 

The point was, she was spending a lot of time with Myka. And Pete and Claudia, true, but they were reasonably good company, taking in the various Artifacts like kids at a sweets shop (“Theodule-Armand Ribot’s calendar? I don’t remember bagging that.” “It causes amnesia.” “What does?”). Helena had already figured today was the day she asked Myka out. She had made a list of conversationally valid starters, practiced their nonchalance, and memorized them. From any of them, she could guide the conversation through such pertinent topics as the importance of female sexuality, the undertaking of societal mating rituals, accompaniment at entertainment events, and how cute Myka’s hair looked in curls. She had plotted it all out in flow-charts. Nothing about their flirting would be left to chance.

 

Although right now she was trying to get a possessed Jesus portrait oriented right—hard, since the eyes kept following her—and Myka was at the other end of the aisle, sending a text message. Oh, well, as soon as Myka came over to join her, Helena would begin their conversation for them.

 

She heard footsteps approaching and turned to offer her most encouraging smile—only for there to be Pete. “So, Ebeneezer Scrooge… any relation to Scrooge McDuck? I just gotta know.”

 

“That was Charles Dickens,” she told him.

 

“Okay…” Pete sounded disappointed. “Hey, did you ever see that League of Extraordinary Gentlemen movie? I know, it pretty much sucked on ice, but bow howdy, Sean Connery as Allan Quatermain! That has to be a little gratifying, right? I would’ve loved if Sean Connery played Rocket McFist… I wrote about him in sixth grade.”

 

“I didn’t write Allan Quatermain either,” Helena said patiently.

 

“Mmmm… I won’t even ask if you created Captain America.” He wandered off, popping some gum.

 

“I do wonder if he was trying to flirt with me.” Helena turned back to her work. Any minute now, Myka would approach her for some friendly smalltalk, and she would broach the question of an evening spent together. Any minute…

 

Claudia coughed, on the other side of Helena’s body. “So, uhh… corsets! Were they really all _that_ tight or just, you know, kinky tight?”

 

“I never really wore a corset.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Claudia lowered her voice. “Did you ever have something rip your bodice off? Because I know it sounds hot, but those things had to be expensive. Would you ever wear a cheap bodice for hot dates?”

 

“Miss Donovan, _really_ ,” Helena said sharply. “I’ll have you know that with strategic time management, a lady may find herself nude at the proper point in any ‘hot date’.” She snorted. “Cheap bodice indeed! Now run along, I am busy.”

 

“Fine, don’t tell me about your steamy love affairs.” Claudia tip-toed off. “Wait, were there any pirate in silk shirts?”

 

Helena made a shooing gesture.

 

“It doesn’t count if they aren’t in billowy silk shirts,” Claudia added, making the ‘call me later’ gesture. Helena made a note not to.

 

Helena stared at a brass teapot and concentrated on willing Myka to come closer. She would just ask her. As soon as Myka came up to her, ‘hello, Myka, would you like to go on a date?’ That was all it took. Why overthink it?

 

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

 

“Wanna go on a date?” Helena asked… Artie.

 

He stared at her.

 

“I thought you were someone else.”

 

“I know. Would you mind getting lunch for everyone? We think it’s your turn, considering you were frozen in bronze while everyone else went.”

 

“And that is surprisingly not a sore subject.” Helena took the list he was holding out. “I’ll be right back.”

 

As she left, Myka stepped in her way. “Hey, H.G., just wondering—you wanna go on a date tonight?”

 

Helena blinked. Then she blinked again. “Yes, I would like that.”

 

“Good. Pick you up at eight.”

 

***

 

“There is a man—the last descendant of a house that clothed kings and emperors. He ran from his destiny because he believed he could never live up to their standards. I helped him embrace his fate and relearn fashion design in three hours, all so I could wear this dress. And only so I could see the look on your face now,” Helena finished, justifiably smug.

 

Myka, having just gotten the door, was holding onto it like driftwood after a shipwreck. “It’s, uhh… red.”

 

“It’s many things. Are you ready?”

 

“For that, no. To leave, yes.” Myka grabbed her purse. “I brought an extra Tesla for you, just in case there’s trouble.”

 

“You needn’t have bothered, I have my own.”

 

Myka looked her over. “ _Where_?”

 

“Play your cards right and you just may find out.” Helena couldn’t help herself. She leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Myka’s cheek. And was very gratified to see Myka smile.

 

At times like this, it was very easy to forget Christina.

 

“So where are we going?” Myka asked, hanging her purse off her shoulder.

 

“I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. It’s a restaurant called ‘McDonald’s’. Apparently, they served over one _billion_ people. I can’t even imagine food like that.”

 

Myka considered what to say to _that_ —and her response depended greatly on if she could remember whether the McRib was available or not, because while she wasn’t Pete, she was still human. Before she could answer, her Farnsworth rang, followed quickly by Helena’s.

 

“A ping?” Helena asked in disbelief.

 

“Maybe they’re just calling to wish us good luck.”

 

***

 

Her evening gown crammed into the Artifact-powered tolerance suit, Myka prepared to climb down the helicopter’s ladder and into the bowl of the extinct volcano before Dionisio Pulido's plow could cause a full-blown eruption.

 

“Not quite what I had in mind for our first date,” Helena said, piloting the pilfered news helicopter. It was actually quite easy, once you grasped the concept of effective translational lift.

 

Myka gave her a quick hug. “But it’s also kinda perfect, huh?”

 

“I have to admit, I would rather be in a volcano with you than eating McDonald’s alone.” While Myka was in range, Helena gave a promising kiss to her faceplate, her lipstick imprinting on the glass.

 

“Uh, honey, I can’t see through your lipstick mark. Do you think…?”

 

“Certainly.” Helena wiped the smudge off quickly. “Go on, darling, the world has enough volcanoes as it is.”

 

Myka rushed to the ladder and Helena concentrated on holding the chopper steady. She thought how small it was, having a friend, especially one that was physically attractive, personally charming, and emotionally available. Surely, there were like individuals back in the England of her time. And yet—when she tried to decide if the world had improved or worsened in her absence, the thought of Myka alone was enough to tip the scales.

 

She decided to ignore the voice another day. She didn’t care what her countryman said. The world wasn’t beyond saving yet.


End file.
